partridges and pear trees
by Daffidill
Summary: silly seasonal story (one-shot) in which John and DI Lestrade compare notes... sort of...


_* author's note:_

_just a little Seasonal fluff, as i've become mildly obsessed with all 4 characters, and wanted to see them all together in a {non-smutty} story... set in a world where Reichenbach didn't happen... {oh, the joys of fiction...}_

_reviews very much welcomed! *_

* * *

'And a partri-hidge in a pear tréééé!'

The sounds bouncing around the sitting room were boisterous, in a nice way, as old Bill was banging the keys of the piano that sat in the corner, and the five people singing along to the song, all trying to remember how many lords were leaping and maids were milking and birds were calling, exactly, and it had easily descended into complete chaos, if Mrs Holmes hadn't been there to keep a beady eye on her guests… As it was, the atmosphere was jolly, and she had pleasant conversations with the people that didn't fancy a silly sing-a-long: Mrs. Hudson and her sister Grace, Nancy, who was Bill's wife, and Sherlock, who was trying to keep away from it all, sat in the old, plush settees near the fireplace, and attempted to talk about whatever came to mind, but the singers kept butting in with their Five Gold Rings…

When that was finally over, Bill carried on with some calmer Christmas songs, and the others scattered around the room, looking for places to sit and chill out a little. John found a sofa in the bay window, overlooking the white garden, though he chose to glance at his other half, who was doing his level best to keep out of the conversation that his mother was trying to get him into. He smiled an inward smile, realising how much agony he must be in there. Mrs Holmes was a woman even Sherlock wouldn't trifle with…

They arrived at the mansion that morning, the last to join the party. It had taken John ages to convince Sherlock that they really had to go now, that trains were going to be sparse on Christmas Day, but a dithering Sherlock would not be bullied or cajoled in any way, so John tried to lead by example and got himself and an overnight bag ready, waited for a bit for his partner to do the same, got exasperated, then went downstairs to call on Mrs Hudson, who would be coming along with her sister Grace, and hoped that the numbers looking him out of the flat would do the trick. It did.

Mycroft had been there already, looking meticulous as ever, and DI Lestrade, for some strange reason that nobody had cared to reveal to him yet, as well as Bill and Nancy, the old couple that lived in the cottage on the estate, and Annika, the young Swedish live-in home-help that Sherlock's mother had taken on earlier that year to give her a hand around the house. She'd proved a sport when they sang the song earlier on, not knowing a word of it, but picking it up very easily as she went along. She even tried to flirt with Lestrade a bit.

John still felt full up from the dinner they had a few hours back. Mrs Holmes (well, her cook, really) had gone to town on the turkey and all the trimmings, having put enough on the table to feed an orphanage, and he nearly said so out loud, but John being ever polite swallowed his remark, and just commented on how lovely it all looked. Both Sherlock and Mycroft, knowing how much this would please their mother, gave him a sweet smile. It suddenly became clear to him how much of a stamp their mother still had on the Holmes brothers. No matter how distant and independent they would like to be seen by the outside world.

Dinner went without a blip. Pudding (Trifle) was delicious, and just when John thought he'd pop, out came the coffee and chocolates – Mrs Holmes' favourite part of any dinner gathering – and they all descended into the sitting room.

'You enjoying this?' he heard next to him. It was the distinctive, husky voice of DI Lestrade, one he'd normally associate with crime scenes or an obstinate boyfriend, so he was bit surprised. The Detective Inspector had slumped down next to him on the sofa, smiling at someone in the group that sat near Sherlock and his mother. Annika?

'Yeah… I think… Bit weird, actually… But no, it's nice, really… You?'

'Loving this… No crime, just food and brandy and a sing-song… What more could you want…' as he smiled his teeth became visible and it struck John suddenly how good-looking the guy was.

'May I ask why you're here? In what capacity? Are you here as a security option, or have you been invited by Mrs Holmes? Sorry, I was just wondering, Sir… DI… What do I call you?'

'Please call me Greg… we've known each other for so long now… It seems mad for you to still be so formal… And anyway, we'll probably… Nah… Never mind… Forget that… Um, why am I here… Well, this is state-secret stuff, so I'll have to kill you in a bit…' Greg looked sideways to catch John's expression, then laughed his striking laugh again.

'John, can you tell my mother now that we're NOT going to get married… Ever…' Sherlock butted in.

What?! Married? To cover his stunned surprise he smiled in the direction of Sherlock's mother, and pulled his shoulders up in a 'I have no idea what this is about, but probably not' manner.

'Good,' his partner answered. Was his mother after a marriage now? Sherlock left the room in a flap, and a nagging voice in the back of his head said that he should probably go after him, but the champagne from earlier on had kicked in and told him something different.

'Boyfriend trouble?' Greg asked in a sympathetic way. The two guys were now both more hanging in the sofa rather than sitting, as a lethargic drowsiness took hold of them.

'Nah… Nothing more than usual, anyway… You know what he's like…' John smiled.

Greg sniggered. Also in an attractive way. 'God, yeah… What is it with those Holmes guys?'

John snorted, then stopped and looked to his side. 'Why, what's up with Mycroft?'

'Well, you think Sherlock is… how do I say this… _particular_, wait till you're in a relationship with his big brother…'

At this John spit out last of the cold coffee he'd been drinking.

'Oh, oops… State secret blown… Wahaa! I'll have to shoot you now, dear Doctor Watson…' Greg laughed, then looked at Mycroft, who glanced in their direction a little perturbed.

'You, and… Mycroft?! You're together…?!'

'Have been for almost a year now…' Greg smiled, 'What, you've never noticed?'

'Obviously not… You've managed to keep that one quiet… Well done!'

'Well, my partner does have a good security track record; he knows how to keep people around him hushed up… Discretion is his middle name… Amongst others…' The twinkle in his eyes was almost audible.

'How… When… I thought you were married?'

'And I thought you weren't gay… Things change, people happen… I've always known I like certain men, but haven't been with one since I got married to Louise, twelve years ago… And then my marriage started to go belly up, about two years back, when she'd lost her dad, and I wasn't there for her enough…'

_A year and a half before_

_Greg sighed a very deep sigh, as he stretched himself out behind the desk of his office. The case he had been working on in the last three weeks had been solved, thanks to Sherlock and John's help, once again, and he was busy tying up loose ends. Three government officials had been found strangled, within two weeks of one another. All were gay, and all were in some way connected to Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, whom he knew vaguely through his dealings with the younger sibling over the years. Mycroft had wanted Greg to keep feeding him information about the case, and once or twice he had come to his office to talk about some details. They got on okay, shared a sense of humour about Greg's super intendant, but nothing more than that. _

_Until Greg received a text, ten minutes earlier, in which Mycroft invited him for a coffee. _

_He was tempted. More than tempted, actually. He was keen to get to know this strange, scrupulous, intriguing man a little better. A brother of Sherlock… A polite, gentle, attractive, sweet relation to that caustic, taciturn, anti-social guy who's been his saviour on many an occasion. Well, he couldn't have been all that caustic all the time, otherwise John Watson wouldn't have fallen hook, line and sinker for him… _

_Greg texted back that he was too tired now, but that he could try the next day, maybe. That was okay with Mycroft, and the a few days later they both had enough time to spare at three in the afternoon for them to meet in an exclusive restaurant in Knightsbridge, and they had coffee, and dinner, and five hours later they left. This recipe was repeated week after week, coffee often, sometimes followed by dinner, and they talked, endlessly, about their lives {well, Greg more so than Mycroft, who would divulge the odd bit of information on his background, careful as ever}, and both were happy with their weekly meet ups, as it gave them both an escape from demanding jobs and home-lives {in Greg's case, as he was in the throes of breaking up with his wife}, until Christmas threw a spanner in the works. It proved too busy for both to put time aside, despite both feeling a mad desire to speak to each other. New Year was the same, and on January the second Greg sent Mycroft the following text: _

Please meet me tonight x

_Mycroft had been delighted with the words, especially the bit at the end {kiss?} and he really wished that he wasn't in Geneva then, but he was, and he answered:_

Wish I could, really. Not back in the country until Friday… X

_And hoped that his bit at the end wasn't too mawkish... He was feeling miserable in the Swiss town, surrounded by dull officials and hangers on, he was desperate to talk to Gregory again, see him, smell him, almost {almost!} touch him. If only he could._

_Greg never thought that he could feel the way he was that Friday – like a love sick puppy, wishing the minutes away, as he forced himself to pay attention to the dead body in the skip, as Anderson was citing all the things he noticed, as the coffee was undrinkable back in the office, as the clock just wouldn't say three for what seemed like days… _

_And then it did. A black car waited outside the building of Scotland Yard, and the driver was waiting next to it to let him in, and as he got in, he noticed that he wasn't alone, the was another person in the back there with him {please _please!_ let this not be 'Anthea'…} and a hand touched his, carefully, and Greg looked sideways, half in shock – was this really happening?! – and he was kissed, so very gently, on the lips. _

'_Jesus, Mycroft…' was all he could mumble before he allowed himself to be kissed again, and again…_

Back in the house of Mrs Holmes

John had followed Sherlock out of the room, finally, after being in a light shock over Greg's news {why was he so surprised? They seemed to be matched perfectly, really, when he thought about it…} and opened a few of the doors downstairs before he wandered into the kitchen, where Cornelia the cook and Harry the butler were drinking coffee with his boyfriend, who was giggling and appeared, from where he was standing, to be as relaxed as he'd ever seen him outside their flat.

'Hey, my love!' he exclaimed when he noticed John in the opening of the door. 'Come and meet my friends… This is Neely, who's an even better cook than you, and this is Harry, who taught me how to drive when I was 8… Neely, Harry, this is John, who saved my life…' he smiled a lovely smile at John, and waited for him to finish his introductions, and they all sat down, and Sherlock put an arm around John, and they were filled in on life at Holmes Manor, and Baker Street, for quite some time after that.

'Did you know about Lestrade and your brother?' John asked when they were in their bedroom, getting ready for the night.

'Yeah… Noticed Mycroft's aftershave on Lestrade a bit less than a year ago, and then saw that they looked at each other the way you look at me when you think I can't see you, and then put two and two together… Why?'

'Oh nothing… I just found out, that's all… You're not bothered then?'

'No, why should i? It's weird to see him so happy, but it stops him getting on my case so much, so we all win here… Anyway,' Sherlock climbed in the bed next to John, and leaned over for a kiss, 'why the hell are we talking about my brother now… Are you trying to put me off?' and he followed through. Slightly tipsy from all the wine he put his lips on John's, making hungry noises as he got the result he was after. He felt John's hands in his hair, then they moved to take his t-shirt off, and roamed his body in ways that arouse him instantly.

It was a very Happy Christmas for both Holmes brothers…


End file.
